Simple Theories

  Cabbage Make good Soup For Pro letariat Cabbage  Cabbage Make town Cabbage Proletariat Soup  Every Cabbage proletariat Soup make Cabbage Every day In Even Absence  Cabbage The last Town On the Only cabbage List  Cabbage In our Only Town Tenemos Cansadas

  Graveyard   Salted earth   Provincetown Seeping sand Spit in The ocean Dauntless Lyre

  Saying “This country goes all the way to the left from the right and vice versa.”Call the riders Diane Prime and Edward Born and their rattle trap They are on the road, looking for the road and the where between. Rattle the road with rough sayings of space. Some willing to be willing and some not willing. Asking “Can the road extend beyond my next thought?” Diane thinks she enjoys a poem on some words and while the moments play upon the windshield cannonball along. Edward sees all on the way or all enough. Speeding to elsewhere and otherwise in the land and thought. “We have been to mere space with roads” they agreed. Sentences attributed to uncertain leaps and tanned profiles become data to turn. Diane says “All this turning.” Edward replies “All this left and right.” They agree again, repeating the motto: “The center must hold.” Always lit light from tempered humid here to found there as here. Nodding familiarity and time to mean something. In the excellent divestiture some wor...

 Slick reference point in the greasy diner. Plot twists and argyle socks, unforgivable meaning in the drab part of town. Moxie must be reserved for those dangerous moments. Wisecracks make grease fires. Something called certainty gets taken back. Mysterious people with information float past with sights for sore eyes and internal questions. How many of the sawbucks in that bundle can relieve doubt? A bottle of cheap whisky on the desk proffered with a nod. Cigarettes as instruments. Everyone is malarkey’s best pal. A quick sock to the mush fulfills Diogenes’ intent. We have prose now that is the dead person’s present. No one slips from suddenly. Meanwhile, a shot in the dark: obsequious Justice worth a few smackers. Another ounce of brown liquid, a puff of wreaking smoke to the lungs, tip back the Stetson and feet on the desk: it’s a job.

  Professor Igor Xerxes paced restlessly as he studied the document. It was found amidst the satchel of papers he received from a mysterious woman who then disappeared into the human turbine of The Casbah. Piquancy of prose topped the roll call of the vaunted   papers. ’A prose poem, joy of the gods!’, muttered the professor. Prose of gilded favour, with prompt verbs and oozing adjectives. An impression of intaglio in every noun. Adverbs following verbs in stately preset such as when the canny clicker provides the best tv viewing. Boldly on he read, an unfaded prose poem from when literature still sent shivers. Professor Xerxes went on and on, and even on, tracing the vantage of excellence in the critical mass. Suddenly, with a warlike cry, Professor X threw aside the precious document, ran to his desk and wrote the most powerful footnote of his esteemed career. Culminations bloom in the offing, as oft they do, when scintillant use of punctuation wins the day.

  Rapped across the running streets like vines of dire reaction. We were the generation, and still are. Sunbeams make fancy bullshit, we wear berets.   Stretching out from old igloos oh we have a whole ball to roll. And into the streets we say, racing with foregone gloom. Tidal in every respect, we roar off ready to banish. The moment flashes   in still water. Exposition follows except news disappears. Expect to have words in a moment. The air we breathe contains anything, same as nothing. By this, we feel relief. The road is only one inch long, if measured in time. The inch does not exist, just after effects of the measure.

  The Carpathian Mountains sound like a nice dredge of active distillation as we view our locale in retired awe. I was telling Mama of the fluorescent lighting that beguiles spelunkers in their fading dreams. I think Mopsie’s aging steward told her that. It seemed so apposite at the edge of all this. I forget which Elephant God was mentioned as we gazed at the isolate temple, we knew we were seeing a smack in the timeless pattern. Papa and Auntie resorted to glossing every remark with chortles in the family’s style. It felt so cozy and established.By   the way, Lewis Carroll invented the chortle. I think it was Reginald who pulled out his diary, just to remember this moment and the warm, cawing jungle life before us. Our guide pointed out how diaphanous the trees seemed. She declaimed a poem suddenly, something bold and green and outstanding. It made the fantasy real, or as real as real ever gets. Later we sipped tea in the grandeur of iconic trees while native children scurri...